


ficlets 03

by choir



Series: drabbles/mini fics [3]
Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crossover, Evangelion AU, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haruna and Abe pilot Evas. / Armin dreams of better realities. / Tajima doesn't know how to be subtle, and Hanai is oblivious. / Tajima grows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ficlets 03

**Author's Note:**

> Some prompts/requests from Tumblr and friends. Last drabble is my own take on Tajima with no motivation (so it's slightly canon au-ish).

**Haruna/middle school!Abe. Evangelion AU (Rebuilds).**

 

his hands are stained the color of blood when haruna meets him.

it could all be a farce. abe is young, much younger than he is. inexperienced. naive. greets his superiors with a quick turn of his head and a quickly muttered “hello, sir” that holds no sign of understanding for what organization he is working for.

it could all be a lie, the way abe stares up at his,  _his_  eva, shakes his hand with even wider eyes that beg for recognition. not that it’s very necessary, in haruna’s opinion; the higher-ups are practically in love with the kid, his overwhelming test scores and seemingly faultless intelligence.  _genius, natural_ — haruna hears it all within the first couple of days.

so, perhaps it is repressed anger that presses abe up against the wall of the changing rooms, anger that fuels haruna’s harsh kisses, anger that makes abe fall pliant against the lockers, struggles falling silent against their quick breaths, desperate and strange —

abe is so much smaller, after all; he has only ever seen an angel from the safest distance possible, only controlled an eva in simulations, works too hard for praise and follows haruna around like a magnet.

it feels powerful. their age difference must be no more than four or five years, but haruna has control, a leash on abe that responds even to negative feedback.

and yet: “your synch rates are dropping at an even more rapid rate,” they say, after allowing a younger pilot to fight an angel in the front lines instead of him.

_its been years_ , he wants to scream,  _it’s abe, it’s all abe takaya —_

somewhere hidden beneath miles of protective layering, technology that can only be considered sinful, abe is smiling, looking at his newly completed eva and thinking of only possibilities.

haruna hates him for it.

 

(“how long,” abe asks between haruna’s insistent hands, dragging his shirt up and pressing against his pale stomach, “have you been here —”

“don’t know,” haruna responds, lowering his head. he can completely cover abe’s body with his own, and the knowledge his lips twitch into a grin.

“how many more angels,” he continues with a gasp.

“don’t know.”

haruna kisses abe’s words away, after that.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Eren/Armin. Dreams.**

in armin’s head, eren sleeps in a midst of dreams.

he rests as they did when they were children — curled quietly, no nightmares or fitful thrashing of limbs against the silence. they do not come undone in the pain that settles beneath their limbs, do not breathe heavily over the crushed silence of earlier battles.

_his eyelashes are long_ , armin whispers, watching eren fall and fall and fall. his limbs, still heavy with longing, reach out and touch wisps of armin’s hair, an unusually peaceful look on his face. love in relief is always sweet, at these moments.

and eren, someone as clumsy and transformative as eren, still captures armin’s heart in the same way, through worry and irrationality and jealousy. but it’s not his place to suffer in silence during much larger problems, and even greater opportunities for eren’s venomous revenge.

armin cannot help but be left behind, crushed beneath the weight of it all.

 

(their dreams are much sweeter — peaceful days and long nights, bare feet twining underneath the sheets and muffled laughter. armin is ticklish along his sides, and eren outlines each rib with his fingers.

they smile and never worry about the rising sun.)

**Tajima/Hanai. Subtle.**

 

When the sun is swallowed by the mountains, Tajima draws a gentle line between Hanai’s thumb and wrist with his nails. It’s a quiet invitation, one marred by exhaustion and confusion, but Hanai takes what he has.

It’s not much, Tajima’s wrinkled nose and carefully placed hand — exactly five inches.

Five inches separate their fingertips, and Hanai imagines it, sometimes; hands warm and slender and rough outlining the callouses on the pads of his palm. He doesn’t like to think of it, not when it slips into his mind at night when the air is warm and dry and leaves his throat empty, longing.

It’s uncomfortable. Strange. The space in his chest is not used to being filled, and he abhors the feeling, as though it doesn’t belong there. When Tajima laughs it burns, sends uncomfortable feelings down the length of his spine and back up, awakening the infuriating realization that Hanai keeps tucked behind him.

He tries to swallow it similar to the light at the end of the day. A flash, a momentary lapse, only to disappear.

But it never fully disappears — not even when the sun does not exist, is gone in another house, where he is no doubt smiling in his sleep, because that’s all Tajima does. Grin. Laugh. Throw his arms over his head and tilt his head in a completely nonchalant manner. Yell, kick, and scream —

Tajima pauses before they separate on the way home, glancing up and Hanai with eyebrows furrowed and lips turned slightly downwards. His hand twitches, and for a moment Hanai’s pulse takes off and settles below his throat.

Hanai glances away, uncomfortable with the silence, and opens his mouth to say something when he feels a finger flick at his forehead.

“See ya, Hanai.”

Oh.

And then, a quick rush of anger: “What was that for—”

His fingers move, ghosting over the line of Hanai’s jaw, and every instinct is rushing to his hands to slap Tajima’s hand away, stop it, stop it.

“Nothin’ much.”

Withdrawing his hand, Tajima tilts his head and smiles.

“Tomorrow, too?”

Hanai looks at the ground, where dust gathers on the laces of his shoes. “Yeah.”

The sound of bicycle wheels riding away makes the heat of Tajima’s palm linger, gathering in waves of nauseous heat below his chest.

And it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.

 

 

 

 

 

**Tajima-centric.** **Limits**.

 

Tajima knows his limits.

At a certain point, it is no longer a question of have and have nots; what he lacks surely must be more concrete than that. A question of stature, perhaps. Raw ability. Motivation. Drive.

But he has those qualities, and he knows it. He knows the extent to the sharpness of his eyes, but they still surpass most of the team, at least for now. Still triumphs over pitchers purely by intuition, at least in their first year. And he knows, most of all, that none of these can last. Everyone will grow and develop their own special ability that Tajima worries he won’t be able to catch up to.

And Hanai. Hanai, with height and hidden talents and power that Tajima only envies. It leaves his hands shaking when he thinks of it, heart beating faster out of -- anger? fear?

He can’t place it, but his fingers tremble so violently he can barely grasp onto a spare baseball in his room to fling it against the wall, finding little to no solace in the way it thumps against the posters of professional players. Yet he does it, over and over, iron in his mouth from the cuts he bites into his lips.

It is never a matter of catching up, or slowing down. What Tajima realizes he cannot understand is that innate power Hanai has, which Tajima will eventually use up, becoming obsolete. When they're in their third year, Hanai holds the cleanup position from the start, and Tajima can’t breathe when they announce his position anymore.

The rivalry in their first and second year must be over, Tajima laughs to himself. Momoe has chosen who triumphed.

It only angers him more when Hanai acts so _fucking_ oblivious, surprise coloring his features every time the batting order is announced -- _you won_ , Tajima wants to say, the smile on his face morphing into more of a grimace than anything, patting Hanai on the shoulder.

_Is it a matter of winning or losing this spot?_   Hanai asks one day, fidgeting nervously in place. They’re in the middle of a game, and Tajima is about to bat.

Tajima stares out at the empty field. _No. You just have the skills to be cleanup, moreso than me._

_Don’t -- don’t say that. What the hell is wrong with you, Tajima?_

Tajima stares at him, eyes going dark. Giving up, realizing his limits -- it weighs on his shoulders and wraps itself around his neck. Possibilities he had once previously imagined have long since faded.

_Nothing. Nothing’s wrong._

Stepping out onto the field feels heavy, now. The bat is harder to grip, and the world spins in slow motion every time he approaches home plate. There are often flashbacks to his first year, when he steps on home plate; to his rambunctiousness and silly grins cast in Hanai’s direction, making Hanai blush and cover his eyes with his hat.

When Tajima swings, it weakly connects, and he barely makes it to first base. A single. Like every game, every at-bat.

_Nothing is wrong,_ he repeats to himself, staring up into the stands. _Nothing is wrong._

 


End file.
